RPlog:Daybreak
The night passes uneventfully, save for the fact that Paul came to the decision at about 3 in the morning that the mattresses on the fold away bunks were definitely in need of replacing. Waking up early, the Corellian stumbled into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee brewing. His hands had memorized the placement of each item and switch, which was fortunate because his eyes weren't open yet. The smell alone was enough to crack his eyelids, and with that he crept quietly into his room, his eyes drifting to the sleeping woman there. For awhile Paul stood silently in the doorway, watching her sleep, a small smile on his lips even if his hazel gaze was unsure. The refresher, however, beckoned, and slipping inside, Paul starts up the powerful spray, sighing with relief as he sheds his clothes and steps beneath the water, careful to shut the door behind him. The sound of the refresher is enough to rouse Ariana from her sleep, even if the soft pinging of water droplets are like tiny needles on her mind. Wincing, she cracks open her eyes, moans at the blaring (yet diffused) light, and rolls onto her side. No good. A wave of nausea runs its gamut through her, and, hurtling upward, she springs for the door of the bathroom. It is opened with a yank before she lunges for the toilet and, as perhaps would be expected, loses the good food and brandy Paul gave her the night before. The soft humming in the shower ceases at the doorway being open, the water stops at the sound of retching. The door opens, and fortunately with her head in the toilet, Paul has the opportunity to grab a towel and wrap it about his waist. A second smaller towel is rinsed in the sink, and crouching down next to the clearly ill blonde, Paul lays a supporting hand at her shoulder, the cool wet towel ready for her when she's ... finished. Ariana reaches blindly for the button to flush the toilet once her stomach's contents are gone, and, face against the seat, she mumbles, "I hate life," with the thickness of someone who has alcohol in her system as yet. Tilting her head gently, Paul wipes at her face with the cool cloth. His voice is very soft and lightly pitched as he murmurs, "All done, or is there more to come?" He brushes her hair out of her face, hazel eyes concerned as he tries to gauge how much she consumed with how much she threw up. Ariana twists her head dizzily to regard Paul through matted lashes; her eye makeup is smeared and useless, making her appear black-eyed as well as sick. The tousled hair adds a touch of the horrific to an already unglamorous appearance. "Blaster," she mutters, groping toward her side where the holster for her blaster is still strapped to her upper thigh. _Okay, not that sick clearly_ His hands reach for her face, the wet cloth wiping away at some of the ravages of overworn makeup. "Blaster? I don't even -know- her," he jokes poorly. "I figured you probably didn't want to sleep with it poking into your thigh, going off unexpectedly in the middle of the night. It's on the bedside table." Ariana makes a token effort to pull away; the result is flopping against her Corellian host as her muscle control takes a vacation from the rest of her body. If Paul looks toward the bedroom, he might notice that she sometime in the middle of the night, perhaps after he finally fell asleep, located more brandy. The bottle's nearly empty...and might in part explain her presently graceless state. "C'n I have it." "Shiisa, not in the state you're in honey, come on," and with that Paul gets an arm about her waist and hoists her up. For a moment he considers just supporting her, but that will take more time and effort. With one more slight heave he has Ariana up in his arms, pressed against his chest. He shoulders his way out of the bathroom, laying her back on the bed gently and scooping up the palm blaster with the intention of sticking it in his pocket ... which of course he doesn't have on yet. There is another lowly muttered curse as he pulls the robe over her, muttering, "Yer naked," in the hopes that that will distract her from the loss of her weapon. "Water," is Ariana's next request as she is put horizontal, though nearly at once she fights to sit up. A wave of disorientation sweeps over her, however, and with a groaned oath that is in Paul's native tongue she flops backward again. Her greenish complexion is unpleasant, matching her attitude. "'Zere coffee?" The blaster is tucked gingerly at his back, between his flesh and his towel. Pressing on her shoulder gently, Paul eases her back onto the pillows. "Ariana ... listen to me, alright? I want you to lie here and rest for a moment, no moving about. If you do that, I will bring you water, coffee, and something that will make you feel -much- better, alright?" He holds his position, just in case she's planning on fighting the idea or didn't quite get it the first time. Small droplets of water stream off from his hair, dampening the bed and her skin in tiny splashes. Ariana nods numbly as she makes every effort to focus on the handsome face hovering above her, clinging to each word while her alcohol-thickened mind sorts out its meaning. "Why're y'here?" she asks, fingers digging into his shoulder as a hand closes atop him. "Where're we anyways? Y'ship? My head's going t'explode." Shifting on the bed so he's sitting next to her, Paul leaves his hands pressing gently against her shoulders. "I'm here because it's my ship ... Your head isn't going to explode, it just feels like it's going to. We're here because you were very upset ... and if you promise to lie very still and be quiet till I come back, I promise you that I will give you something that will make your head less like a bomb and make you stop seeing four of everything, okay?" Still, the Corellian waits ... as her grip on common sense seems woefully poor at the moment. Ariana casts a disparaging look at the bottle she damned near emptied the night before, realizing that it is the cause of her numbed sensation and her lack of mental faculties. "Paul," she mutters. "You. Paul. This is your ship." Willing her muscles to relax (and amazingly they do) she adds with as little coherence as she has shown earlier, "Gotta rest. Can't think. Last night. Talon. Brandy." A pause. A moan. "Brandy. Uhhhhhh." "Okay, stay still, alright? Just give me two minutes of non-motion ... I think that's a fair request ..." Waiting just one more second to see if she'll be obedient, Paul rises, moving quickly out of the room and to the kitchen. The palm blaster is tossed into a drawer with various cooking utensils in it, as a mug is filled with coffee, a glass is filled with water, and another glass is filled with a suspicious red looking fluid. Balancing these carefully, Paul re-enters the room, half expecting to find the blond on the floor instead of the bed. If Paul expected to see Ariana laid out on the floor, he's not much disappointed. Not long after he departed for the kitchen she found herself consumed by another bout of nausea that sent her scurrying for the bathroom again. There's little left to bring up, so after some token wretches the dry heaves set in. By the time Paul and his red liquid appear in the bedroom, she is laid out by the toilet, face against the mercifully cold floor, moaning something along the lines of intending to get her head removed at the earliest convenience. "Gods," he mutters softly. The assorted glasses are put down on the floor, Paul walking to the bed to pick up the soggy towel and the green robe. Returning to her side, Paul washes the cloth again and then gently lifts Ariana up. He wipes her down tenderly before helping her into the soft robe, wrapping it securely about her to keep her warm. Now sitting on the floor of the refresher himself, he pulls her slight figure into his lap, wiping the hair from her face before offering the red liquid to her. "It looks horrible, tastes like nothing, and will make you feel better ... promise. Just sip at it, don't gulp." The Corellian doesn't really trust that she can do this though, and the words are more for explanation as he holds the glass up to Ariana's mouth to help her drink from it carefully. A child she is not, but Ariana currently obeys better than making decisions for herself and drinks what is offered to her. She gags once, a simple reflex from the operations working in the opposite direction so recently, but the rest of the fluid is absorbed as directed. Once she is finished she slumps against her Corellian lean-to and, shivering as one often does in the throes of post-nausea stress, she thanks him...even if she doesn't precisely know what he just gave her. If Fortune smiles upon her it's poison. "Y'need a shave," she slurs as her cheek brushes his. "Feel like th'Tatooine desert." "And you told me that you liked men with beards," he rumbles deeply, the sound emanating as much from his chest as his throat. Once assured that the glass has been drained, he puts it down and out of harms way. Wrapping an arm about her as they are sprawled on the floor in a most undignified manner, Paul rubs her arm through the overflowing robe. "In a few minutes," he murmurs softly, his voice gaining tenor and richness due to the acoustics of the refresher, "you'll feel that nausea abate, and your head should shrink several sizes ... I would hazard a guess that the rest of the alcohol in your system should be neutralized shortly thereafter ..." And for those minutes, it seems that the Corellian is content to simply hold her close. Ariana decides to pass that time reclining in Paul's warm embrace and asserting her willpower toward dismissing thoughts and awareness outside the comfort of his arms. Sure enough, with each passing minute her headache and its throbbing insistence diminish, her stomach ceases its zero-g rebounding, and the disorienting effects of the alcohol lingering in her bloodstream fade to nothingness. A long, heavy sigh escapes her parted lips while she reaches for the previously promised water. Sensing what it is that she wants, Paul reaches for it as well, his hand colliding with hers as he picks up the glass. He keeps his hand there only until he is sure that the small fingers beneath his are steady and able. Once released he drops his hand again to her arm, rubbing soothingly. "Better?" "Better," she affirms and takes a tentative, testing sip. The water is swirled around her mouth then, with a single apologetic glance at Paul, spat out into the toilet. The inelegant action is repeated a second time before water is actually swallowed. "How much did I drink? I can't even remember. Serves me right..." Her voice dwindles to nothingness while she plucks the discarded cloth to wipe at her face, "...for drinking when I'm not used to it." There is a small chuckle at the unlady-like gesture, the hands on her body squeezing slightly. "Well, I only let you drink enough to be comfortably soused but not sick. Unfortunately, apparently you decided somewhere during the middle of the night to finish off the whole bottle." Cocking his head to one side so he can look into her mussed face, he murmurs, "Ready to get off the floor, or you want a few more minutes?" Ariana considers, then, for safety's sake, answers cautiously, "I like the floor better. How horrid do I look, Paul? I feel like a Bantha tap-danced on me, and that's not a comfortable feeling." Her weak attempt at humor at least indicates her nausea and headache have indeed abated; she is trying to cheer herself up. Peering into her face with a considering expression, Paul replies, "Like a bantha tap-danced on your face ... and with black eyes to prove it." His lips, however, are curved into a teasing smile. "Here, hold still and close your eyes," he instructs, and takes up the wet washcloth for a more thorough scrubbing of her features. Ariana's eyes flutter shut obediently, though her hand reaches up to hold his while it glides across her smirched features. "I could use a long shower," she confesses. "And thank you. I was hoping this morning I was dead or dying. I don't feel perfect, but by comparison..." Ariana mulls over the question, though, frankly, the pleasant sensation of the cool, moist cloth passing over her features is enough to lull her into mindless relaxation. Despite the lethargy her body desires, her mind turns the question this way and that, focuses on the previous night, and eventually she says unhappily, "I remember sounding like a mewling Ewok babe, whining about my life." "That was a small part of it, yeah, but you had a right to be upset," he counters. Ariana shrugs. "What time is it?" she asks rather than pursuing that line of thinking. As her figure pliantly settles against his own, he continues his gentle washing of her face. Between the washcloth and the medication, she's beginning to look human again. "I have no idea," he murmurs softly. "I've been, ummm, kinda distracted." Paul thinks for a moment before hazarding a guess, "Eight in the morning?" "I should go," she mumbles, though her body shows no inclination of obedience for this decision. "He'll be worried. Or just angry." The temptation to mention that Karrde can go *bleep* himself is a powerful one. Instead he offers up, "And rightly deserves to be ... let's get you human again first, hmmmm? And then I'll remind you of my offer before you go." Paul, however, also doesn't seem terribly inclined to move from the floor. Recalling how she called out to him the night before, calling out Talon's name, causes a sharp sense of anger. _He doesn't deserve her ..._ Herself disinclined to rise, Ariana snuggles against Paul and lets her eyes flutter shut until necessity for cleanliness urges her to struggle to her feet. "Shower." The word is more insistent than her lethargic movements might imply her to be. That was what the Corellian was invested in before all this happened, and the brief image of him finishing that, with Ariana, is both unexpected and uncomfortable. Allowing his head to drop utop of hers, Paul murmurs, "Shower? You seem more sleep inclined than shower inclined ... you want to rest some more first?" Ariana shakes her head, determined to make it to the refresher and, well, refresh herself. Doggedly she insists, "I don't want him to worry more than is necessary, Paul. I don't know what he'll think of me." Sighing softly as she brings up -him- yet again, Paul grips Ariana's arms, pulling her away from himself so he can get his footing. He then rises up, helping her get to her feet as well and waiting for the inevitable lightheadedness rush to hit her. "Alright then ... you think you can stand in the refresher alright?" Chuckling wryly, though every scrap of visible skin is coated in a blush, she counters while accepting Paul's support against the dizziness, "What alternative do I have? Just prop me inside there and let the hot water beat sense into me, hmm?" "Well, maybe I better just set the seal in place ... that way you can sit on the floor and let it fill up like a bathtub ... with the shower running. It'll be just like one of those old holovids where the submarine springs a leak. Just don't forget and suddenly try to open the door or something, or you'll flood my room." Paul stands there, waiting as she leans against him, grateful for the fact that he bought large towels. He moves over to the refresher, getting the temperature just right before reaching for the robe. "Okay, go ahead and strip down and step in ... when you close the door, the seal will be in place and the refresher will start to fill with water. Just ease yourself down and press the silver button when you want the shower to stop filling it up, okay? And yell if you're in trouble?" Ariana smiles thinly as she watches the Corellian busy himself with the business of readying the refresher for her. "Maybe I should just let it fill up entirely and save us all some time," she says crossly, though the moodiness is but half-hearted. Off comes the robe, then the thigh holster for her blaster, then the panties, and into the refresher she steps, a slender line of pale flesh who fits her NRI moniker of "Javelin" to a T. There's no time to respond to her sharp self derisive jibe, and Paul's mouth simply opens and closes as she tosses it off along with her robe and what little she was wearing. With a soft sigh, Paul hangs the robe up, pulling out another towel and setting it on the sink for her. The fact that nearly every statement from her lips is either an attack on someone, him, or herself bothers the Corellian ... because one day she isn't going to joke about it. One day she just might do it. With that uncomfortable thought in his head he retreats from the battle field, not bothering to close the door between that room and his own. Stripping off the towel he sets about to getting himself dressed. "Paul?" Nearly the instant the door to the refresher is closed, Ariana's voice floats out, tinged with anxiety. "You're not going anywhere, are you? I mean...can you stay nearby and talk to me, please? I'm feeling a little...YE GODS, this is hot!" A second after adjusting the temperature of the water, she continues, "A little insecure and alone. I'd like to hear your voice. It's...a wonderful voice, really." His head raises, hazel eyes focusing on the doorway between them, steam wafting out and into the main room. Pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over the space and the rush of water, Paul calls back. "I'm right here Ari ... just getting dressed. Not going anywhere ... and thanks." There is a small pause as he reaches into a closet for a shirt. Blue. "What would you like to talk about?" Ariana's shrug can be heard in her voice as she calls back, gurgling while the water splutters in her face, "Anything. Um...do I remember correctly? Did you offer to take me on some sort of treasure hunt last night? I can't think that clearly through the haze of the...where's the soap? Ah. Of the alcohol." Shirt on, now button. "Yeah ... I, well, we could use someone of your expertise to help us get some fake permits, convince the Imperials that not only are we a legitimate whatever, but that there is no need for them to breathe down our necks or send a small platoon to go with us to the North Ocean of Anthaniss." From the refresher there is silence save the distinct sounds of someone bathing, then washing her hair. The water makes small, appealing pings against the walls and door of the shower. Eventually she offers, more softly than before, "More pursuit of treasure, of wealth, of gold and tangibles." "More?" Paul queries a touch curiously. Pants ... brown and comfortable. "To be honest, I have no idea what we'll find ... could be quite valuable, could be nothing. You'd be a partner in whatever we gathered ... and if it doesn't pay out, I'd compensate you for your time and talents of course." Ah, clothed. Brushing his hair back casually with one hand, Paul settles himself on the bed somewhat restlessly. Ariana emerges from the shower in two towels, one about her head, one about her slender frame, her color restored to its pale pinkness, her face scrubbed clean of makeup and shining with youth. Without her fancy attire and jewels and makeup she looks sixteen. "I don't know what Talon will say," she ventures hesitantly, lingering in the doorway. Glancing up, Paul simply stares for a moment, but whether it is at her appearance or her comment is hard to determine. "I imagine he'll either say no, or that he doesn't care ... but that either way you'll feel that he doesn't approve and you won't accept." There is a small but meaningful pause before Paul murmurs, "And this isn't something you can share with him. Perhaps I shouldn't have even shared it with you ... I didn't think about the fact that you would feel obligated to tell him anything after last night." Pausing as she works a towel into her hair, Ariana just stares at the Corellian with mouth agape. It isn't that she can't keep confidences, it isn't that she cannot understand why Paul wants this kept secret. No, what blazes across her confused features is the concept of withholding something from Talon Karrde, the man with whom she shares her life. The man from whom she withholds nothing. "I can't go without telling him why," she says limply. "He's more husband than employer, and I owe that to him." What the Corellian is thinking is something of a mystery, his hazel eyes flickering with unspoken thoughts. In something of a nonsequitor, he simply points out her dress to her. "I figured you'd want to go as you came, so there's your dress and things ... I'll give you some privacy to change." He moves, his form seeming to take up more space suddenly, his face a touch harder than usual. As he passes Ariana by, he calls over his shoulder, "Want some food? You should eat and keep it down this time ..." The door opens for him obediently, almost as if fearing he wouldn't stop it if didn't. You exit from the Captain's quarters. Main Ring -- Quasar Bolt This is the main area of the ship and obviously serves multiple purposes. The entrance is open and airy, with several couches and a table. It is designed to be an area for passengers and the occasional crew to lounge in. There is a computer terminal available in one corner. To the right, sectioned off slightly, is a kitchen area, well stocked with the latest in cooking equipment as well as a fine assortment of food. Off to the back of the entrance space is a walled off crew quarters section. To save space, the bunks are folded up into the wall space and can be pulled down at will. There is a storage unit available for personal belongings next to each bunk compartment. There is a door visible, leading off to the right next to the kitchen, but it is locked. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Captain's Quarters -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- leads to Level 5 -Public Hangar-. ft leads to Cargo Hold -- Quasar Bolt. ore leads to Cockpit -- Quasar Bolt. Paul_Nighman enters Main Ring -- Quasar Bolt Ariana follows the Corellian out of his quarters, still clad in her towel; now, however, she also wears a frown that furrows her brows to a point just above her nose. "You're about as discreet as a drunken Trandoshan in a crystalwares shop. What's wrong?" she queries from the spot directly behind him, ready to ensnare him if necessary to prevent a second strategic withdrawal. Heading into the kitchen, the Corellian seems to decide that the simplest form of resistance is simply not to acknowledge the query. Instead, he busies himself with drawing out various cooking utensils and food items. One drawer is open, displaying a number of spoons, tongs, spatulas ... and Ariana's palm blaster. Pausing for a moment, Paul picks up the diminutive weapon and turns, handing it back to it's diminutive owner. "I know you're not deaf." For a moment the strident voice, coupled with the upper-class Adleraanian accent, sounds much like the princess of Ariana's birthplace. She takes the blaster and holds it loosely, having no present storage place. "So tell me what's making you close up." "You," is the Corellian's simple response as he turns his back on Ariana, his hands cracking open eggs and cutting up a hunk of cheese. "It's none of my business, it's not my problem, so for once I'm just going to shut up." Despite the slightly stiff motions of his body, his voice is deceptively calm. Ariana pokes Paul in the back, and none too gently, either, before sliding to one side. He can easily avoid regarding her if he still wishes, but at least she can stare at his face. The frown manages to furrow all the further, lining the youthful features already soiled by the morning's nausea and the previous evening's excesses. "I thought we were friends now, and that makes it your business. Besides, something's irritating you royally. Let's hear it." "Don't push me Ari ... just let it go. You don't want to hear and I don't particularly care to say it ... again." It's only one slight turn to his left and Ariana has a nice view once again of the back right side of the Corellian, who turns on the heater and pours the egg solution into a pan. Ariana's shoulders slump and, twisting away, she clenches and unclenches her fists while her lip finds its way between her teeth. Wordless is her response, and, save the rapid breathing that signifies her struggle for emotional control, no sound is audible from her direction. Then, jaw clenched, she stomps back into his quarters and, once the door is shut, accents her arrival by the sound of something crashing into the door. Perhaps it is only the crash that brings him in after her ... or perhaps her reaction merely forced the issue, the Corellian unable to let her go away upset. Standing there, the expressions on Paul's face shift between regret and frustration, and then to dismay. He glances about for a moment trying to determine just -what- exactly was broken. When he spots the vase, there is an ominously long moment where he simply stares. Whatever was about to leave his lips stills and dies there. Walking over he bends down, touching the pieces delicately for a moment before slowly picking them up one by one, laying them in the palm of his opposite hand. The small blonde has apparently shot her temperamental bolt and now sits on the edge of the bed, face in hands. Can she hear Paul's entry and the delicate retrieval of each piece of vase? Probably. Does she react or indicate she cares? No. Her breath whistles in and out between her fingers; no sounds of weeping are heard, but her muscles are taut enough to bounce credits for a good few feet. The vase looks to be of little value. Of all the things she could have thrown, it is clearly not an artifact or even expensive looking. It is simply a small hand blown glass vase, pretty in the shades of rose, green, gold, and blue that it is shot with and speckled by. Of all the things she could have thrown, it was the most precious. Paul takes his time, not uttering a word as he picks up the small shards, careful to get every little piece off the ground. He rises slowly, walking over to his desk to deposit the handful upon the surface, a sweet tinkling sound coming from the shattered bits. Brushing off his hands carefully, the Corellian turns, leaning back against the desk to look at the woman sitting upon his bed. Ariana does not budge from her perch on the bed's edge, although her muscles become tenser still. Add to that a tremble of sheer nervousness and you have a woman who is emotionally wound as tight as a Grand Moff's wallet. For awhile Paul just lets her sit there and stew in her own juices. Perhaps it is attempt at punishment ... or perhaps he simply doesn't trust himself to be gentle. Finally, though, his eyes flicker to the pile of glass and he forces himself to realize that it is -only- a pile of glass. Shifting, the desk creaking with the movement, he moves away and toward the bed, sitting down next to Ariana. There is another pause, and a soft sigh before he shifts to face her, wrapping arms about her shoulders and drawing her close. Ariana drags herself away from him, standing with an abruptness that is sharp when juxtaposed with her former stillness. "What a blight I am to men. I know I drive you to distraction, I know I'm bad for Talon; the Maker knows that I hurt Lando deeply." The words seem queerly devoid of emotion, as if a simple statement of fact. "I don't know what I broke, but it's something you value. Just give me the boot, Paul. I deserve it, and worse." "For once I would like you to sit down and stop ripping yourself to shreds," is his quiet reply. Paul doesn't rise, merely waits for her to stop. "I'm going to say my peace this once, and never again. It's your life, you do with it as you will. I'll always be there if you need me, but I can only do -this- one more time." Ariana shakes her head vehemently and answers, voice fought to a conversational level that trembles twice, no more, "I'm being honest, Paul. I'm just being honest. I'm of absolutely no help whatsoever to anyone else around here. You were fine until I dumped all over you last night, and considering your expression now you've had enough of me. I'm not feeling sorry for myself; I'm just stating that I excel at making men unhappy." Resting her temple against the forehead, she mumbles, "I'm such a child where relationships go." It takes awhile for Paul to restrain himself yet again, and when he finally does, he lifts blank eyes to Ariana. "You're so ready and willing to give up on yourself ... to see only your faults. What can I say?" Rising up, Paul walks over to where Ariana's dress is laid out. Lifting it, he brings it over to her. "If that's your perception, then that's your reality. I really don't know what to think any more ... you're a very persuasive woman. I'd argue with you, but you've never -heard- me before, so I don't suppose you'll hear me this time either." Handing her the dress, Paul leans over, placing a kiss on Ariana's cheek. "Get dressed and come to breakfast ... please?" The dam of Ariana's eyelashes and lids holds back the twinkling of tears in her grey-shot blue eyes, and, putting a hand on Paul's chest, she tries to explain in tentative, tremulous terms what he does not understand. "I haven't given up on myself, Paul. I just hate how..bloody horrid I am with men. I can learn, I can change, I know. But I have really cared for so few people and I make each of them fracking miserable. I...I just don't know what to do anymore." Laying a hand on top of her own, Paul stares down at Ariana. The heat of his chest and hand trap her own, the slight thrum of his heart barely discernible beneath her fingertips. "Ari ... I don't know what to say, save for my own experience. I don't know what happened between you and Lando, I only know what I see and you tell me regarding Karrde. As far as I can tell, the only reason you hurt others is because you are so wounded yourself." His fingers absently rub against her knuckles as he murmurs, "I almost wish he physically beat you ... that way at least I could show you the bruises and try to convince you. But maybe it is you ... maybe Talon is not so much a distant and uncaring man as you are an overly demanding woman. I don't know. I just don't know." Ariana cannot decide whether to be offended at the implications that Karrde is heartless and/or she demanding...or to be shocked at the notion that Karrde has somehow abused her. At least the dichotomy of her emotions distracts her from the self-derision. "W..what are you trying to say? That Talon's mistreated me?" she stammers. "Ariana, I am merely telling you what you tell me ... and what I see. Does someone who loves you manipulate you like he did last night? If someone loves you, shouldn't you be able to at least -ask- them for anything? If someone loves you, don't they at least try to make time to spend together with you? If someone loves you, don't they want to spend as much time with you as possible, even if it's just being in the same room?" Paul stares down, hazel-green to blue-grey. "Would Talon have spent the night taking care of you, held your head while you threw up, hold you in his arms and comfort you when you needed it?" "He DOES love me!" she bellows insistently, alternately horrified and irate over the implications of his words. "He protects me even when it chafes, he lets me do as I please so long as it's safe, he...he...he's a busy man, Paul!" Defense of her lover triumphs over the worry that she is somehow suffering. "He has a vast enterprise to organize and maintain, and he doesn't need some mewling female wanting him to coddle her. He wants someone strong, someone independent, someone who doesn't need to hear 'I love you' more than twice in an entire year..." Rattled, is she? To her bones. Taking a different tack, Paul simply and quietly counters, "Does a woman in love describe her relationship as a "chain"? Does a woman in love berate her relationship more than she lauds it? Why would a woman, who knows that she is loved, hold on with a death like grip for fear of losing that love?" If that weren't enough, those hazel eyes dare as he states, "You have a choice - you either choose Karrde, for better or worse and make the best of it, cherishing the moments together and resign yourself to the separations, or you end it. If you want him so badly, then there's no point in bemoaning his absence." Ariana whispers, as if denoting irrefutable evidence of her decision, "I'd die without him, Paul. I swear I would. I know that sounds ridiculous and sentimental, but I have no life without him. I cling to everything he says, I watch everything he does. But...but..." She sniffles, angrily brushing her forearm across her eyes, "I don't seem to have a life with him, either." "I watch myself when I'm with him, too," the small blonde continues, "and what I see is a facade, this wonder woman who acts so forceful and strong, an iron maiden that seems to be what he wants. It's not me. It's NOT." This, more than anything, seems to be the confession that disturbs her to the nth degree. Taking a regretful step back, Paul once again presses the dress forward toward Ariana. "That isn't ridiculous or sentimental. That's dangerous and unhealthy. You're not in love, you're obsessed." Shaking his head, he notes, "I've been there myself, but not to your degree .... when she left I didn't die, but I certainly wanted to. Even tried in a way. I got better ... eventually." Taking a step toward the doorway, Paul turns back for a moment. "Everyone wears a facade, not just you. I doubt you could have been in the NRI without being at least a little bit "forceful and strong". People are what they perceive they need to be. I imagine that if he fell in love with you, it was with who you -are- not who you pretend to be. I would not, if I were you, assume that your facade "seems to be what he wants" ... I would ask him." Ariana and the beaded gown sit on the bed, the garment clutched against her towel-shrouded figure like a security blanket. Her gaze fixes straight again with the piercing aspect that hints at a mind seeing far beyond where the eyes are aimed. She ruminates over the advice, then, meekly, asks with the weakness of an insecure female, "What do you think of me, Paul? I mean...do you understand why Talon might care for me?" Running a hand through his rumpled hair, Paul sighs. It's a hard question to answer, especially after this mornings events. "I'm not Talon, so I can't give you clue one why you are special to him. What -I- find attractive about you is your strength, your humor, your style and grace ... and of course the fact that you can frequently take my breath away with your looks. If I knew you better, I would imagine there would be other things that I would admire about you. But we're more like intimate strangers - knowing deeply personal things without really -knowing- each other." Turning aside to look out the door, as if contemplating the now ruined food, Paul notes, "However, each of these qualities with exception of your beauty, have diminished slowly since we've met ... you put yourself down constantly, your humor is more one of self-derision and sniping, and your strength is diminished by a lack of self-confidence and self-esteem. To be honest, Ari, it's very painful for me to watch you slowly slip away." Ariana remains motionless for a second, then another and another and another, her eyes burning twin holes in the bulkhead. Finally she leverages herself upright, discards the towel, and draws the gown over her head. Shortly thereafter she straps her thigh holster onto her left leg. No word comes forth, no emotion surges forth in her expression as she uses her fingers to rake her hair into a bastardization of her preferred hairstyle. Then her fingers move for the palm blaster she has left on the bed and shove it into place within its leather holster. Straightening up, she tugs her dress into place and turns to go. Swinging about readily, hands catching her at the shoulders, Paul growls softly, "Oh no ... you don't get to ask me a question, get an honest answer and storm out of here. Not after all this." "I'm not storming." Ariana's voice is hollow, distant. "I'm just leaving. When I get somewhere I'll let you know where I'm going." His hands don't waver, and Paul waits, his eyes burning against her features, willing Ariana to look up at him. "I want you to come with me ... I want you to be a partner in this venture. I need someone of your talents." The blue eyes are dark grey now, and wide to boot, as they lift to meet his hazel gaze. "Someone of my talents?" she echoes distantly. "Someone who is terminally self-deprecating and who is obsessed with her lover, someone who snipes and lacks self-esteem. Oh, yes. Those are ample qualities for a partner in a lucrative venture." Shaking her now, his temper rising up for about the third time now this morning, Paul barks, "Stop it! Just stop it! It's not you, so stop painting such a tragic little picture. I don't buy it. You know exactly what I mean and exactly what your talents are." "You said not ten minutes ago that my qualities had diminished because of those things," Ariana points out quietly. "I'm not saying I'm all of that. I'm repeating what you said. Or did I hear wrong?" His grip is still tight, the Corellian more aggravated by her lack of emotion than he was by her high emotion. "I'm telling you that since I've met you, yes, you seem less than the woman that you used to be ... but I'm not hiring a "woman" to be my partner. I'm hiring an "ex-spy", who undoubtedly has much talent and expertise. I also think that the reason for your, let's call it a slump, is this place. It's sucking the life out of you. Time for a change of pace, even if it's only for a brief time. Time for you to -do- something again other than waiting around for Talon to come back." After a decent pause, Ariana suggests feebly, "I need to think about it," and begins asserting herself to break Paul's hold. "I need...I need something." Whether she is confused by the blast of emotion and accusation or she is distracted by her mind masticating on Paul's words is not clear. The Corellian's internal emotional temperature holds at her soft words, the boiling point merely degrees away. Slowly it simmers down, the grip of his hands easing up. "Alright then ... think. I'll wait the day. If you don't come, I'll go to Calamari, but you can call if you change your mind." There is a moment of silence. "Ari ... I know you love him, but I don't trust him. Please do not betray me." The words are not spoken harshly, but simply in regard to her previous mention of her need to be completely honest with Karrde. Sick at heart. That's the expression she wears, were one to label it appropriately. As she withdraws from his grasp and angles toward the door, defeat her shadowy companion, she murmurs, "I don't know if I'll even see him again. Or you. Expect my answer in some form, Paul. And thank you." Her hand activates the door mechanism, and as hurriedly as possible she slips away. Part of him screams to follow her, grab her, stop her ... but he doesn't. The Corellian simply stands and lets her flee from him ... or herself. He just doesn't have the energy to stop her. Slowly, Paul walks over to the bed and lowers himself down on it. He simply rests, refusing to think about anything for awhile. After his mind seems clear, he rises up again, walking slowly to his desk, one finger shifting through the broken shards of vase. Sitting down he quietly, calmly, opens up his datapad. The chrono reads 09:48 .... 12 hours to go ... Daybreak